I dreamt we spoke again
by Cyranothe2nd
Summary: Sansa and Sandor's conversation in 7x4 and afterwards. Sansa/Sandor, explicit sexual content, evidence of past abuse.


Sansa had not intended to speak to him.

She knew Clegane had joined their ranks—of course she knew. Men talked of him, even as far from King's Landing as Winterfell was. They spoke of his size and his temper and his ruined face. Sansa had learned to listen to people talking and take note of the things they said. So, within hours of his arrival, she knew that he had joined them; she knew that he slept in the barn with his horse and that he had been to the blacksmith's shop; she knew that he had supped at the keep at least once.

Still, she did not wish the distress of a confrontation with him, likely drunk and saying spiteful things to her as he had done at King's Landing.

But that night, as she beheld him sitting alone, she felt the stirring of something. The spark of a long-held fancy. Of strong arms around her, and trembling lips on hers. Of his body laid over hers like a cloak, warm and heavy. Of the almost-kiss in her tower at the Red Keep. Of having something—anything, really—that she desired merely for herself and not for her family or for the North.

Sansa was keenly aware that a choice laid before her. She was Lady of Winterfell, in all but name. Which meant that she could claim the North and refuse to bow to any Southron rulers, Jon's promises notwithstanding. She did not trust this Dragon Queen. Her skin still crawled at the woman's feeble attempts at manipulating Sansa into a friendship only last week. Sansa did not understand how someone so bad at politics could have reached the highs that Daenerys Targaryen had. Though, Sansa supposed having two full-grown dragons had something to do with it. Still, Sansa believed that friendship was not truly possible for her anymore. Her family she was bound to by blood and loyalty, but she would not trust the intentions or counsel of others, no matter what some easily-led men like Tyrion Lannister believed of her.

It was only her love for Jon that held her back. Her love and trust in him, as her brother. Those days of replicating her mother's disdain of her husband's bastard were long behind her now. But even then, her mind still spun with the possibilities of herself as Queen of the North, strong and free of the affairs of the Lannisters and the Targaryens.

Her thoughts chased each other, the end of the War for the Living making her feel uneasy and out of sorts. Her gaze turned more and more to Clegane, sitting alone and drinking, his expression unfocused as if he were lost in thought. It was clear to her that, with the War for the Living over, he wanted to leave, though she was not sure he realized it himself, yet.

She stood abruptly, passing it off as a toast to the Dragon Queen, who looked pained and despondent. Sansa felt a flicker of disdain for the women for revealing her feelings so utterly. The flicker burned into a brighter spark as she turned towards Clegane again and saw a woman sitting next to him, smiling at him, clearly offering herself to him. Disdain sharpened into anger, quickly stifled, not a whisper of emotion showing on her face. The emotion was unjust, in any event. She hadn't any right to it. Idly, she wondered if Clegane had at long last found something sweeter than killing.

Clegane turned towards the woman and said something to her that Sansa could not make out, except the low growl on her voice. It was clear then that this woman was not his lover and Sansa felt a prickle of relief at that. The woman stood, all righteous indignation, and fled to the young man across the aisle.

The decision was made before she was conscious of it, Sansa's feet carrying her to his side of their own accord.

"She could have made you happy, for a little while," she said as she sat, her face turned away from him. It was a strange way to begin, but Sansa could not help it, the helpless anger still curling in her belly.

Clegane did not stand, as was customary to do in the presence of a lady of a great house, but he did draw himself up, straightening his spine in a way that pleased her. "There's only one thing that will make me happy," Clegane muttered.

"And what's that?"

He turned towards her fully, eyes lifting to hers. "That's my fucking business," he growled back, like the Hound of old. Only, Sansa was no longer afraid of him—the Hound, for all his bluster, had always been kind to her.

She kept her cool gaze trained on him, and, after a beat, most of the anger drained from his countenance. "Used to be you couldn't look at me," he said, a bit ruefully.

"That was a long time ago. I've seen much worse than you since then," she answered lightly. She knew that telling him that left her open to one of his biting observations, but he lacked the ability to wound her anymore. For all that he snapped at her, she could only see the hurting man beneath who had, nevertheless, tried to protect her back in King's Landing.

"Yes, I've heard," he said. "Heard you were broken in." Clegane leaned forward and dropped his voice into a needling tone, intending to shock her. "Heard you were broken in rough."

"And he got what he deserved," she leveled back. "I gave it to him."

Sansa was truly enjoying herself now. She had not understood this game when she saw him last, the way a conversation could be like a battle or a dance. In King's Landing she has admired Queen Cersei's ability to use her wit and charm to neatly trap people into agreeing. At least, she had until Cersei's deceit was turned onto her. After that, learning to battle with words was a matter of survival, but she had never realized it could be enjoyable as well.

She realized now that Clegane had been toying with her for much of their acquaintance, trying to elicit a response for some malicious amusement of his own.

"How?" he challenged back.

She smiled triumphantly. "Hounds," she said.

He broke first, huffing out a laugh. She allowed her own amusement to show, for a moment. A gleeful smile lit her face and they sat, grinning at one another for a long moment, before he leaned over and poured himself more wine.

"You've changed, little bird," he said, lifting his cup to his lips. His eyes looked admiring now. It was difficult to bear, the frank, fond look he was giving her. Her eyes slid from his, her face losing expression, discomfort and desire tangled together in her belly.

Clegane set down his glass with a hard clunk and leaned forward across the table, pressing at her weak spot. "None of it would have happened if you'd left King's Landing with me," he said fiercely. "No Littlefinger, no Ramsay-"

Her eyes met his then, startled by the stark hurt in his tone. Had he thought of her, too? Imagined what their lives might have been together? Imagined the kiss that never happened?

Some of these questions must have shown in her eyes, because he turned away and he sucked in his cheek self-consciously before he finished, "None of it."

On some level, she'd always known that; that he would never have hurt her, that he would have always protected her. At least, he would have until the Lannisters chased them down and killed them both. She'd been a foolish girl, then, chasing after daydreams and waiting for a handsome knight to come and save her. After everything that had happened to her, everything that had been done to her and everything she had done to avenge herself and her House, she could look to the past with cold honesty and see the mistakes she had made. If she had gone with him…

The idea was ludicrous. Sansa would never marry again, and she would never again leave the North. Still for one lovely moment, the idea caught and held. What if they had escaped to Essos, or to Dorne? Would they have been happy together?

She believed that they would have been.

Not that she would ever tell him that.

Nevertheless, she could tell him some of it—the mad, stupid fancy she held in her heart.

Sansa reached across the table and slid her fingers into his large hand. His eyes shot to hers, incredulous. "Without Littlefinger and Ramsey and all the rest, I would have stayed a Little Bird all my life." _And we could have never had this, now, _Sansa thought. _This understanding and affection. This moment where I can reach out and have you, if only for a night. _For a moment, Sansa let her desire show in her face, the desire she almost-never allowed herself to feel. The desire for something of her own. His fingers closed convulsively around the stunned look on his face, Clegane seemed to understand exactly what she felt and what she wanted.

Sansa stood abruptly, feeling terribly exposed. Sansa hesitated, on the verge of saying something-she knew not what-before walking rudely away.

She went immediately to her room and stripped off her gown, leaning with her hands over her desktop in only her shift and corset, skin prickling with gooseflesh.

She had not thought she would ever invite a man into her bed. After what Joffrey and Littlefinger had done, she had felt the idea merely unpleasant but still her duty. But Ramsey had shattered any desire Sansa might have had to explore further. She would never again put herself into any man's power. And she would never bear the shame of taking a lover who was repulsed by the scars Ramsey had left on her flesh.

But Clegane—Sandor- would never be repulsed by her. He would likely be angry on her behalf. Perhaps even tender. Yes, she imagined him tender, some of the time. And, because he was leaving for King's Landing to face his brother while she stayed in the North, she would not be in his power, nor would he try to wrestle hers away. Perhaps it was all right. Perhaps she could have this.

These were the conscious thoughts that ran through the logical mind of the creature she had created out of her pain and rage. But underneath, a bit of the Stark girl remained. Enough for a tumult of feeling to grip her—anxiety, fear, the thrill of conquest, the heat of desire long denied. Those feelings rose like a snowstorm until her conscious mind could no longer ignore them.

She breathed slowly in and out, then straightened her spine and stood away from her desk . She unlaced her corset and hung it and her dress away, before completed her toilette with an unruffled countenance. She was just brushing out her hair when a light knock on the door nearly caused her to collapse into nerves. With a swallow, Sansa forced the feeling down and croaked, "Come in."

It was only Lucy, come too late to check on her mistress before retiring for the night. "With that rather handsome Dothraki I've had my eye on," Lucy winked, and Sansa laughingly sent her away. She had just sat down again, reaching for her hairbrush, when a heavier knock sounded. Sansa's heart once again leaped into her throat because she knew-_she knew_-it was him this time.

She took in a deep breath, found that she could not utter a word and instead crossed the room in bare feet and opened the door herself.

Sandor stood on the other side, looking discomfited but defiant. Sansa stepped back to allow him to enter the room, intensely aware of his body—the physical presence of his massive frame—as he stepped inside and wheeled to face her as she shut and barred the door. She turned towards him, dressed only in her shift, her hair tumbling in long waves around her shoulders. She saw his eyes flick down to take in her body, stopping at the jut of her breasts, clearly visible through the silk of her shift, and then travelling up and down her several times. He had eyes like a hungry dog.

Sansa drew in a deep breath, wiping expression off her face and forcing her spine straight, bolstering her courage so that she could walk past him and further into the room. Her desk stood in front of the wide fireplace, and she paused to fill two metal goblets with water.

"Are you drunk?" she asked him bluntly, holding a goblet out to him.

"Not enough to be unable to perform, if that's what you mean," he said quarrelsomely, plucking the goblet from her hand. She noticed that his hand was shaking a bit.

"Drunk enough to be unable to be considerate?" Sansa shot back, the question an honest one. She had had quite enough of ugliness in her bedchamber for a lifetime. She would not stand for it now.

Sandor took a sip from his goblet and winced when he realized it was water. He moved closer to her, setting the goblet back down on the table next to hers, untouched. His eyes, already so different from the cold, angry ones she's seem in King's Landing, now looked even warmer. Admiring the frankness of her speech. He had always disdained courtesy from her.

"Not that," he said fervently. "Not for you."

She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and finally let the mask drop from her face, revealing the riot of emotion underneath. His eyes widened and he responded at once by closing the distance between them, clutching her face in both hands and bringing his mouth crashing down onto hers. It was like sinking into a hot spring all at once, her body going molten and languid at the touch of his lips on hers. If his arms were not holding her tight, Sansa was certain she would have sunk into a heap at his feet. As it was, she sagged against him, hands clutching at the black leather covering the undershirt he wore.

He had been in mail before, in the Great Hall. Why had he discarded it, Sansa wondered as he kissed her again and again. What did it mean?

Sandor's tongue breached the seam of her mouth and the question fled her mind.

He tasted of the salt and lemon paste used to clean teeth, and slightly of wine and spices. Sansa wound her hands into his wild hair and held him to her as their tongues tangled and dueled one another.

It was heady to kiss a man like this, a man she had chosen for herself.

She clutched at him, fingernails scraping across his scalp as he deepened the kiss. He made a noise into her mouth that vibrated right through her, leaving a shivering mess behind. Sansa tore her mouth from his and buried her head into his chest, both of them breathing harsh and loud in the quiet room.

Sansa's head was spinning; nevertheless, she felt his two hands make a slow, maddening descent from the crown of her head, down the cascade of her hair—sending pleasurable tingles down her spine—and parting to bracket her spine and wind around to grip both hips in his hands.

"Sansa," he rasped out.

It was the first time she'd ever heard him call her by name and it thrilled her, caused her to tip her head back so that she could see the taut and intent expression on his face. His hands tightened on her hips and she found herself lifted off her feet and against his body as Sandor's mouth devoured hers again. Sansa wound her arms around his neck, pressing as close as she could before his hands traveled lower, urging her to lift her legs and wrap them around him. Sansa felt herself shaking with need, kissing him fervently, even as a sliver of anxiety licked at her mind.

Sansa pushed it down, kissing him with more determination as he stumbled across the room to the wide bed. He laid her down, his weight pressing her into the bolster below. His hips were grinding into hers, and the stab of anxiety came again, more insistent this time.

She tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself that this time was different, of course it was different, she was being silly. Still, the pleasure that has swamped her to this point was draining away, slowly replaced with a panicked need to get out from under him and away, away, away. Sansa froze, torn between her desire to see this through and the rising agitation that gripped her. So lost was she in her own conflicting emotions that it took her several long moments to realize that Sandor had stopped kissing her and had removed his weight from her, straddling one of her thighs, his hands on either side of her head as he looked down at her with some concern.

"Maybe you're not such a warrior after all," he observed.

Sansa felt a stab of fury and humiliation. She pushed at him until he sat up and away from her. She scooted away, snatching up the fur-lined robe that laid at the foot of the bed and throwing it over her shoulders. Her mouth trembled. How did he always manage to make her feel pathetic and childish? She shivered, clutching the robe closer around her.

"Sansa," Sandor reached out, trailing his rough fingers down her forearm and under her palm. "Sansa, I didn't mean—"

"You did," she shot back because she hated liars just as much as he did.

"Well, I'm a mean bastard and you mustn't pay me any mind." His voice was ironic, but his expression was contrite.

"Have you done this before? After Ramsey?" The question was as gentle as he could make it, but she still felt exposed and angry.

"I never thought I would want to," she said flatly. "But if you don't want me as I am, then go."

She was already putting her armor back on, the haughty demeanor and smooth face of the Lady of Winterfell. This had been nothing but a foolish lapse, one that she could easily uproot and excise from her heart.

Sandor's hand tightened painfully around hers. "Don't do that," he said. "Scream if you want to. Or hit me. Even cry, if you must. But don't go all cold on me." He shook their griped hands for emphasis. "Not when I know how hot you can be."

His other hand trailed up her tightly crossed arms to the swell of her breasts above them, sure fingers drawing circles over the silk of his shift. She felt paralyzed by his touch, so present and overwhelming. She entire body yearned for him and, as his fingers strayed closer to her sensitized flesh, she abruptly unfolded her arms, dragging his hand in hers towards her other breast. When his fingers finally found her rosy nipple a moan shuddered out of her.

"Yes," he said, drawing the word out. "Just like that."

Sansa realized her eyes were closed and forced them open so that their eyes caught and held. There was a question in his and she answered it with a nod of her head.

"Go slowly," she instructed.

"Aye," he murmured, head dropping to her breasts and sucking one nipple into his hot mouth. Sansa gasped and moaned, squirming beneath him and he assaulted first one breast and then the other, his saliva wetting the front of her shift and making her heated flesh even more sensitive. He kept his hips away from her and his weight off of her, and the anxiety faded away. The assault went on and on, his simple actions eliciting increasingly erratic responses from her. He laid siege to her, lips travelling teasingly up her next, his whiskers tickling the place under her ear. He laid down on his side next to her, urging him to unfold underneath her as he ran his hand down over her belly, skimming her hip and back up. He fumbled with the buttons on the front of her shift, exposing her breast and kneeling over her to suckle at her bare flesh. She felt his mouth as if it touched her everywhere. Her woman's place ached for him, even as her mind shied away from removing her last barrier and revealing what had been done to her.

She realized suddenly that, while she had been anxious about being unclothed before him, she was in only her shift while he was still fully dressed. Sansa's hands came to life, moving to the fastenings of his black doublet, unbuttoning and parting the supple leather to clutch at the linen shirt beneath. Sandor sucked in a breath against her neck but did not stop her as she divested him of his doublet, and belt, then leaned away to help him off with his boots and socks. After these were set aside, Sandor stilled her, hastily pushing the rest of his clothes off and into a heap on the floor and until he stood before her in only his drawers, his member clearly visible, jutting and wet against the thin fabric.

Sansa's eyes took him in and then slid away, the panic edging in again.

Sandor's hands came down on her shoulders and squeezed until she met his eyes.

"Take your time," he told her, voice low and full of gravel.

He stepped back from the bed and went over to the fireplace, the fire burned down to coals now. There was a velvet-covered chair drawn up next to her desk. Sansa liked to sew there in the evenings, where the light was brightest. Clegane's large frame looked incongruous in the dainty chair, but he sat and stared into the red glow, giving her space.

Sansa watched him, feeling her breathing evened out, legs shaky but holding. She could back out, she realized. Even now. If she told him to leave, he would be angry, but he would not push her. He would go, if she wanted him to.

That realization pushed the last of the panic away. Still, Sansa waited until she was sure, absolutely sure, that the only thing she felt was desire before she joined him by the fireplace, grasping a handful of her shift and pulling it over her head, baring herself completely to him.

Sansa watched him look at her, his eyes falling at once to her breasts, then down to the ugly pink patches on her belly where Ramsey had flayed her. She raised her chin and turned her back to him so that he could see the ugly roping scars on her back and buttocks. She had been so afraid of this, but now that it was happening, she felt calm. Powerful, even

She faced him again, eyes searching his for pity or, worse, disgust. She did not see anything but admiration and simmer anger at those who had hurt her. Sansa felt a swoop of triumph in her breast so great that she felt like shouting. She allowed herself a wide, savage smile and straddled his lap, sinking against his chest and kissing him soundly. His hands crushed her to him, guiding her hips to his straining cock, hissing as her core made contact, only a layer of fabric between them.

"Fuck, woman," Sandor hissed, pushing aside his drawers and pulling her down onto him, fucking her in earnest.

He was large, as she'd known he would be, and as every bit as powerful as she'd dreamed in the lonely nights she'd spent in the bed a few feet from where their bodies collided. There was no pain, just a thrilling stretch and burn that only pushed her desire higher.

"S-Sandor," she stuttered out.

He hummed against her mouth, two fingers pressing in between them and onto the place just above where their bodies joined. His other hand clutched her hair, drawing her lips away from his so that he could change the angle of his movement inside her and – oh! Yes! There, a bright spark flickering to life inside her, shivers chasing deliciously up and down her spine, her senses blanking out one by one as his fingers moved rhythmically. She pressed herself into him, seeking more contact. The drugging slide of his skin against her pushed her desire higher and higher until the spark blazed, bright and burning in her chest, exploding outward like a wildfire through dry forest.

Sansa knew distantly that she cried out and that his hips quickened their pace, drawing out her pleasure into long, sinuous waves of fire that burned her to ash, leaving silence behind.

Sansa did not know how long it took her to come back to herself. When she did, her eyes opened to see Sandor staring into her face with intensity, his mouth set into a grimace as he sought his own pleasure. Sansa reached out, tracing her fingers through the ample hair on his chest and down his stomach, watching their flesh meeting below.

"Look," she said wonderingly, her mind still spinning in the after effects of her ecstasy. "Look at us, Sandor."

He looked down at where they were joined, groaned and came, shaking and gasping, his hands clutching her shoulders in an almost painful grip. His grip slackened after a few jerks and moans and his head met her shoulder heavily. They stayed that way for long minutes, still joined and pressed together, just breathing.

Eventually, he sat back in her chair, looking tired and satisfied. The simple pleasure on his face disarmed her. She could not think of a time when she had ever seen him look happy. She gazed at him for a moment, allow herself to dream of other times and other lives. With a shake, she pulled away. Their bodies separated and Sansa slid off his lap, finding her shift in a heap of silk on the floor. She busied herself with drawing it back over her head and arrange her hair around her shoulders.

She did not want to look at him.

He would leave now, she knew. The siren song of his revenge beckoned him.

For one senseless moment Sansa had to fight the impulse to ask him to stay.

She turned away from him, gathering his clothes and bringing them to him. She held out his undershirt, unable to avoid looking at him any longer.

"I'm going to King's Landing," he told her. "I'm going to kill that bastard, or die trying."

"I know."

Sandor stood and dressed with quick, efficient movements. She followed him to the door, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. She could not ask him to stay any more than he could ask her to go with him. She was where she belonged, and he had to find him own place in the world. She may dream of something different in her most secret heart, but she was a child no longer.

Sandor unbarred the door and grasped the handle but turned back to her without pulling the door open. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but instead pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss, then pulled open the door and left.

Hours later, Sansa watched his destrier canter out the front gate and down the road, heading south.


End file.
